


Weekend in the Cotswolds

by Wetislandinthenorthatlantic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkwardness, BAMF Greg Lestrade, F/M, Fireworks, Guilt, Heavy Angst, House Party, Mutual Pining, Prompt Fic, Sexy Times, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic
Summary: Molly and Mycroft have a secret past and things didn't end well. Now two years, later the whole gang is celebrating Sherlock's return at a weekend house party in the Cotswolds. Cue angst, pining, and smut!





	Weekend in the Cotswolds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thINKture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thINKture/gifts).



> Hello! Lovely ThINKture needs a bit of TLC so I wrote this fic! They requested: "How about Mollcroft having a past and meeting years later? Awkwardness, guilt feelings, fireworks, naughty water -- THE WORKS!" Here you are, my dear friend. I made is nice and smutty just as you like :)
> 
> Note: also included, some swearing, and note the "M" rating for a plot with sex.
> 
> Huge shoutout to @obotligtnyfiken for the beta! Your comments help turn good things great!
> 
> This fic takes place after Sherlock returns from the dead -- but no Tom and no Mary. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Large House in the Cotswolds - Late Friday Afternoon**

 

**Molly**

This is all my fault. I mean it sounded like a really good idea at the time. When Sherlock got home I could tell he was overwhelmed. Hardly a surprise coming back from the dead and all.

I thought it would be nice. Just the usual suspects as he likes to call us— his mates— having a good old fashioned house party. Wellies and walks. All of us pitching in cooking dinner. Drinking wine and staying up late hearing stories about what he got up to while he was away. Well, the parts he can tell us about anyway. I'm sure there is plenty he can't say.

I was putting my things away and Sherlock was lying on my bed. At least he had taken his shoes off— he knows how much I hate shoes on the bed when he proudly announced he and Anthea had been conspiring so Mycroft wouldn’t be able to escape. Sherlock was super chuffed he had turned his brother’s mobile service off for the weekend making him unable to contact his driver— or anyone for that matter— until his car showed up on Sunday morning.

In that instant, I forgot how to breathe

_I. Can. Not. See. Him._

Why in the world was he even invited? They hate each other.

I hear a car pull away and the front door close.

Oh god. I think I'm going to throw up. It's been two years and still the sound of his voice, even from the other side of the house makes my stomach flip.

_I. Can. NOT. See. Him._

 

 

**Mycroft**

The moment I step over the threshold into the spacious entryway I see her coat hanging on the hook above those god-awful wellies emblazoned with sunflowers.

I am going to rip my beloved little brother limb from limb. He told mummy he and “the lads” were renting a house for the weekend. She insisted I come. Said it would be good for me and I'd enjoy it.

“You know the fresh air will do you the world of good.  It's been an absolute age since you had a holiday. You’ll feel all the better for it.”

What she meant was, “Spend the weekend with that little miscreant and try and figure out what new addictions and diseases he has arrived back to these shores with.”

Our mother is not daft.

In all the plans he discussed with me, there was never any mention of Her.

Even if we forget what happened, she should not be here.

I have no idea where his manners have gone. Mummy would be appalled. You can not expect a sole woman to share a house with a group of grown men for the weekend. It is inappropriate and rude.

Gregory looks nervous as he tells me we are going to share a room. He is not telling me anything I don’t already know. Sherlock will want to keep his new habits hidden from me as long as he can. John would rather poke himself in the eye with a stick then be alone in the same room with me. She will, of course, have her own room and for god's-sake I hope Sherlock has had the decency to give her an en suite.

My mind begins to churn with escape plans.  It is likely Anthea and Sherlock have been conspiring right under my nose to keep me here all weekend.

I need to get out of this house and back to London as fast as I possibly can.  

“Excuse me. Gregory, I am going outside to make a call.” I only half-heartedly try to smile. He knows me well enough. He won’t take it personally.

_I. Can. Not. See. Her._

 

 

**Greg**

“So mate looks like we’re going to be roomies.”

Mycroft isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to what I am saying.

I could have told him he was sleeping in the bathtub with a rabid dolphin and his reaction would have been the same. A half-hearted attempt at a polite smile.

I try to tell him about the house— the layout and whatnot and where each of our rooms is. First thing I did was have a good nose around. I like to know where things are. I can’t tell anymore if it’s because I’m a cop or just curious.

He tells me he needs to make a call then makes a B-line right past me to the French Doors in the sitting room. How the hell he did he know the key was kept on the nail to the left of the door— he just reached up, plucked it from its resting place and unlocked the door as if he did it every day.

He’s a funny one.

I watch him as he heads down to the bottom of the garden.  He’s dropped his leather satchel carrying his weekend gear on the ground beside him. Crossing the M25 he swapped his usual long wool coat for a Barbour and tweeds. Clearly, was planning on staying the weekend but it looks like something happened between his car door slamming behind him and meeting me in the entryway.

My ex always used to say I couldn’t leave my work at work. She was right.  I can’t turn it off when I walk out of the office. I see things even when I’m not looking. I don’t always know what I see, but I still see stuff if you know what I mean.

“Ah! His royal highness has arrived! Let the festivities commence! Comforting to see work is still coming before family brother mine. Late but still in time for tea. Typical.”

Sherlock bounds into the room with a grin like the Cheshire Cat clearly hoping to wind his brother up with that snarky comment. His face falls when he sees me.

I don’t take it personally.

John is trailing after him rolling his eyes and looking like he feels he should scold Sherlock but then stops himself.

“He’s outside making a call.” The flick of my head causes Sherlock's gaze to flow outside and down the garden to his brother. A mischievous grin settles on Sherlock’s face.

“Good luck with that brother dear. Come on John. Molly’s put the kettle on. Oh, Geoff, give us a five-minute head start before you call him in. Ta.”

Nodding I turn my attention back to the man at the bottom of the garden.

I’m not as clever as any of this lot but I do know the drill: When you enter somewhere new before you do anything else, have a good look around. Nobody likes to be ambushed.

Phone call my ass.

 

 

**Molly**

He is standing in the garden fumbling with his phone. My hands are gripping onto the edge of the counter because my legs have gone numb. I’m trying desperately not to crumple to the floor.

That coat.

I scrunch my eyes closed in hopes of stopping the memories but I can’t.

It wasn’t meant to rain. Everyone had said it was going to be a lovely sunny day.  Unseasonably warm— all the forecasters had been saying so for days.

I had on my purple dress and the cheap flip-flops I bought for Cath’s hen party in Majorca. It was our Tuesday check-in but instead of having the usual coffee I suggested ‘Let’s go to Regents Park.’ I could tell he was a bit unnerved but we still went.

The sheets of rain arrived out of nowhere.

We were in the middle of the long path outside Kensington Palace. I remember watching him glance at the gate like he might just walk up to it and be let inside.

Before I could protest he had wrapped that coat around my shoulders and was quickly leading me towards a large tree with sprawling thick branches high enough we could stand under them. There was nothing else we could do. I remember his coat was still warm and smelled faintly of his cologne.  

After a few minutes, he abruptly took his arm away and nervously looked at the sky.  The rain had soaked his shoulders, turning his light blue shirt dark. I remember a pang of sadness when he took his arm away.  I wished he would turn back to me, gently cup my face, lean down and kiss me. Right there, in Regents Park under a tree when I was wearing that coat.

“Molly hand me the teapot would you?”

Startled out of my memory and plonked back into this kitchen in the Cotswolds I jump a bit.

“Sorry. Of course. Here.” I pass the teapot to Sherlock.

“You okay?” John looks concerned.

“Yea, just— I was just thinking how wonderful this all is. You know having you back Sherlock.” I forced a smile and hoped they both ignore the tears in the corners of my eyes.

“I understand completely,” whispers John during the hug he gives me while Sherlock makes the tea.

 

**Mycroft**

Anthea is a traitor and if I thought she did this with any malicious intent I would hitchhike back to London and fire her. I’m sure she and Sherlock are to blame for my phone not working.

Had this been the weekend Sherlock told me about it would have been just the respite I needed. Work has been horrid of late.  And for all their faults, Gregory and John are acceptable companions for a weekend. I wouldn’t have even cared about my phone. I can always lose myself in my book.

But not with her here.

Greg comes into our room and he looks a bit surprised to find me lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling.

“Hey, buddy. Tea’s downstairs Molly made a cake.”

Please god, do not let it be a carrot cake.

“It’s that really good carrot cake she makes.”

Visions appear unbidden of her making a carrot cake in my kitchen. I had offered to help, then managed to scrape my knuckle on the grater. I was shaking as she held my hand under the tap to wash the wound.  Water was splashing everywhere.

As she intently studied my finger— the finger she had been licking batter off only moments before — all I could think about was kissing her neck; feeling her pounding pulse under my tongue then drawing a bit of soft warm flesh between my lips and gently sucking until she moaned my name.

It has been two years since that afternoon.

Two years since I have seen her in person.

“Mycroft, you okay? I said Molly made a carrot cake. Let’s go, John and Sherlock are on seconds already.”

“No thank you. I don’t want any cake.”

“Don’t be cross.” Greg dropped his voice and looks around as if he is concerned about eavesdropping.

“I heard Sherlock turned off your phone. So I’ve asked Anthea to send me your priority alerts.”

“Thank you.” This very well might be the nicest thing Greg has ever done for me. He is quick to notice my expression soften for a moment which unfortunately encourages him to make conversation.

“Say, you and Mols still going to do that weekly coffee thing now that Sherlock is back?”

“No. She and I haven’t met for coffee in months.” I take liberties and am being vague. It has actually been 22 months and 17 days since our last coffee.

“Come on then,” his hands are on his hips and in this light, he looks like a cop telling me to get out of my car because he suspects I have had too much to drink and shouldn’t be operating a motor vehicle.  

“You two probably have a lot of catching up to do.”

_Oh, Gregory. If you only knew._

With a sigh, I resign myself to the inevitable. She and I will see each other sooner rather than later and the first time we do I would rather we not be alone. I have no idea what to expect.

Greg weaves his way through the house and I follow him into the kitchen. There in the middle of the big wooden kitchen table is a half eaten carrot cake. A knot forms in my stomach and my heart starts to pound.

Molly is at the sink with the water running and doesn’t hear us come in.

“Look who I found!” Greg has a smile on his face expecting to see a happy reunion.

Molly sets the wet mug she has been washing on the drainer and dries her hands before she turns around. Her jaw is clenched.

“Hello, Molly.” I let instinct and manners take over hoping for my sake they are stronger than the last two years of pain and agony I have suffered at the hands of this woman.

She gives me a half nod and quickly asks, “Tea?” Without waiting for an answer she is opening up a cupboard and pulling out a mug. As I watch she makes me the perfect cup of tea.

Just like the last two years haven't happened.

I can’t look at her when she places the mug in front of me.

Greg seems oblivious to our anguish. Molly has turned her attention back to the sink and is busying wiping it down with a fresh tea towel.

“Greg, please tell me you brought the keys to your handcuffs.” John comes into the kitchen with one handcuff locked on his left wrist.”

“How the hell? Sherlock get out of my bag!” Greg is shouting expletives as he races out of the kitchen followed by John.

Christ almighty. This weekend is going downhill faster than even I thought possible.  My head is throbbing and I rub my temples hoping this helps but secretly I know the only thing that will make me feel better is a stiff drink and my chair at the Diogenes.  

Molly still hasn’t turned back around. I think seriously about the hitchhiking idea. We are in a nice area of the country. I’m sure a Land Rover driven by some card-carrying member of the Conservative Party would pick me up before I even became winded. But I'm a gentleman and won’t bolt. Because no matter how much pain she has caused me I won’t do the same to her.

I take a deep breath and forge ahead.

“If I had known you were coming, I would have declined the invitation.”

She gives no indication she has heard me. Molly dries the right side of the sink for the second time.

I’m in uncharted waters but I press on.

“I do not wish to make this any more difficult for you.  I propose we are civil to each other at mealtimes and all other times I will endeavour to make myself scarce so our interaction will be limited.”

She stops wiping, takes a shuddering breath and delivers a curt, “Thank you.“

Her shoulders shake as she starts to cry causing the knot in my stomach to enlarge. A gentleman would offer her a fresh hankie and perhaps place a hand on her forearm or shoulder to offer comfort.

I do none of these things. For my own sanity, I leave the kitchen without saying another word.

If I find out Sherlock has somehow discovered what happened and he brought us together on purpose— he is a dead man.

 

**Molly**

I am relieved to know he will not be stalking me around the house trying to corner me to have a discussion.

There will be no discussion.

He’s right. There is no way we can not see each other this weekend. I take a few moments and let this reality set in, wondering what the consequences will be. There's not much I can do now. What will be will be. And at least we aren't “together together” that should count for something. Hopefully? Maybe?  

After I wash the tea mugs I go into the sitting room with the plan to do some knitting. Greg and Mycroft are both already there reading. As soon as Mycroft sees me hesitating in the doorway he gets up to search out Sherlock so the pair of them can start on dinner.

Well, at least he is keeping to his plan.

The rest of the afternoon passes without incident and even dinner was going fine up until now— We passed dishes when asked and kept the conversation going without much interaction with each other.  As he said we were being civil.

I had managed to not look at him for most of the evening but then it happened.

He made an unremarkable gesture with his right hand but it ignited a fire between my legs as I remembered having his finger inside me while I was in his kitchen. After the stress of that week and him not believing me about the strange man, he and I had been having a perfectly lovely Saturday. By the late afternoon, we were shamelessly flirting like a couple of teenagers who had been left alone for a few hours. I had decided to make a carrot cake and he offered to help.

At one point he even dragged a finger through the batter and held it up for me to lick off.  With a cheeky grin on my face, I slowly sucked on his finger. Unfortunately, he then went and scraped his knuckle while grating carrots.  We both thought it was going to be pretty bad so I held his hand under the running tap to wash the wound. His hand was shaking so much water was going everywhere.

When I turned the water off and dried his hand, it turned out to be nothing. After the drama was over he looked down at me and said: “Looks like I’ve made everything wet.”

Blood was pounding in my ears when I whispered “Yes. You have.”

I watched him swallow hard, then putting one hand on the counter behind me, he drew me closer. His eyes locked onto mine as he slowly slid his hand under my skirt and up my leg. I asked him what he is doing and he softly replied “Waiting for you to say no.”

I said nothing.

By the time he reached my knickers, I was very nearly gone. His finger moved under the thin strip of elastic and between my folds. Discovering how wet I was, his grip on me tightened. In mere moments I unraveled in his arms.

When my eyes fluttered open his finger was still inside me. The look of utter astonishment on his face was a mixture of shock and pride at what he had made happen. I smiled and pulled him down to kiss me. His finger began to move again but I grasped his wrist and gently pulled his hand out from under my skirt.  I smiled and told him to wash his hands because we had a cake to finish.

“Molly?” It's Greg. Blinking back into the present I find everyone is looking at me with concerned looks on their faces — even him.

Although I’m not sure I can stand up I know I can’t sit in this room any longer. Forget seeing him. It’s clear I shouldn't even in the same room with him.

“Ah, do you mind if I go upstairs I'm not feeling well. I promise I’ll clean up dinner tomorrow. “

I don’t wait to hear anyone's answers and make sure I don’t glance at him on the way past.  

 

**Saturday**

 

**Greg**

I have always been an early riser. Today my eyes snapped open at 6 a.m. The ex loved it when the kiddos were little. I’d happily get up with them no matter what the hour. Never been an issue.

It’s nearly 9 a.m. and I haven’t seen a single soul yet so I decide put on a pot of coffee and start frying up some bacon— that should rouse these campers.

Sure enough, John appears and I hand him a cup of joe.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Yup,” I reply “but my roomie didn’t. He tossed and turned all night.”

I’m not one for gossip but thought I would throw this out there to see if I was the only one noticing how strange Molly and Mycroft are acting.

“Humm, you think the same thing that’s bothering him is bothering Molly?” He pokes his head out the door to make sure we are alone before continuing, “She was acting very odd yesterday.”

“They both were mate.” I turn my attention back to the bacon.

“Let’s see how things go today.”

Molly stumbles into the kitchen and it looks like she didn’t sleep a wink either.

“Hiya.” She brushes past me to get to the kettle.

“So Mols you up for a hike? There are a stone circle and a pub less than 10 miles away. After a bit of brekkie, we’ll throw on the wellies and have a good old trudge, get a couple pints, some lunch, then head back.”

“Ah, thanks Greg but I think I’ll pass today. See you guys when you get back.” She sticks her head out the door and looks around before she skerries back to her room with her huge mug of tea and the piece of buttered toast she nicked.

John and I share a knowing look.

“Greg, you think you can keep the brothers from killing each other if I stay here and talk to Molly.”

I tell him I’ll do my best but make no guarantees.

 

 

 **Molly**  

As soon as the guys leave I head down to the sitting room to do a bit of knitting. John comes and sits down after he finishes tidying up the breakfast things.  All I had to say was “So what’s news?” and he was off. It felt good to have a good old chinwag with him again. It’s been far too long.

Once we had caught up on his practice gossip and the latest from the morgue he looks at me and asks “You okay Molly? Yesterday you seemed a bit out of sorts.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m fine now. Just-- you know.” By the look in his eyes, I can tell he thinks I’m talking about Sherlock and I don’t correct him.

At 11 a.m. John offers to make tea. “I’ll clean off the table," I call after him, my hands gathering up the various magazines and papers that have appeared on the coffee table since yesterday afternoon.

My breath catches in my throat when I move a pile and discover Mycroft’s book. It is his small leather-bound volume of poems by Tennyson. I faint smile is on my lips as I remember that first evening.

It had taken a good 10 minutes before the rain had stopped enough so we could make a quick dash from under the tree to his car. On the way to my flat, I suggested he come in for a cup of tea and to dry off before he went back to the office. He took me up on the offer. After a quick cuppa and a few minutes with my hairdryer, he was ready to leave. While I was watching his car drive off I saw the mysterious man again-- same guy from the week before. It was only a glimpse but I knew it was him. When I went back inside my flat I tried to forget-- to convince myself it was nothing. But it didn’t work.

By the time I showed up on Mycroft’s doorstep that evening I was a wreck. He went into his office to check with my security team while I sat on his sofa nursing a cup of tea. When he came back and told me nothing had been found I burst into tears.

After a bit of hesitation, he showed me up to his guest room. Even though I had been on nights that week and was exhausted, I still couldn’t sleep. When he popped his head in to check on me before he went to bed he found me awake.

“I take it your mind is still churning,”  I nodded to his correct statement. He left and returned momentarily with his book. Without hesitation, the chair from near the window was pulled up next to the bed.

I watched as Mycroft flipped through a few pages then stopped

“Close your eyes,” he said. I obeyed and he began to read to me. Soon the rhythm of his voice had lulled me to sleep.

Taking a deep breath I caress the leather cover softly before I open it up to the bookmarked page:

_I hold it true, what’er_

_bfall;_

_I feel it when I sorrow_

_most;_

_‘Tis better to have loved_

_and lost_

_Than never to have loved at all._

 

John, holding two mugs of tea comes back into the sitting room and finds tears running down my face. After putting the mugs on the table he gently takes Mycroft’s book out of my hands. He silently reads the open page then looks at me.

"I don't understand." John's confused look is firmly etched on his face.

He looks back down at the book then to me again. 

“Molly-- yesterday in the kitchen and now-- this isn't about Sherlock is it?" 

I close my eyes tight and shake my head.

John gives a nervous laugh "You and Mycroft-- please tell me you haven't--"

I look away and can feel my cheeks flush.

“Wow,” He sits back into the chair and lets out a sigh like he is deflating. “Does Sherlock know?”

My nose is starting to run and I give a loud sniff and wipe my face with the arm of my jumper.

“I didn’t know he was coming this weekend. And if I had known I would not have come. I'm not supposed to see him.” I am wringing my hands nervously.

“How long? I mean, when did it end? Is it recent?” John looks confused again.

I feel sick to my stomach as I shrug my shoulders.

“It’s been a long time but I'm not sure that makes any difference to him. I really shouldn’t be here.”

John puts his arm around me and tells me it will be alright but I don’t believe him.

 

 

**Greg**

It was a good walk. No major incidents and everyone arrives back in one piece.  After I knock the mud off my boots I go in search of John to hear how his talk with Molly went and find he and Sherlock have Mycroft cornered in the living room.

Mycroft is sitting on the couch, arms folded, with the pair of them sitting in the chintz armchairs opposite him. It all seems very tense. Sherlock has his fingers laced together making a steeple which he has held up to his lips like he does when he is thinking.

“So what’d I miss?” I give them all my friendliest smile and try to lighten the atmosphere.

“I had an interesting chat with Molly while you were out.” 

“Oh, yeah?” I ask as John keeps his eyes on Mycroft.

John takes a sharp intake of breath through his nose. “Look Mycroft I know you like the whole power trip thing but torturing Molly like this is uncalled for."

"Dr. Watson, you might remember I have been out of this house all day and have not seen Molly since last evening. How exactly does this constitute torture?"

"Apparently you don't even have to be here. Earlier when she saw your book she burst into tears."

I watch all the colour drain from Mycroft’s face. He looks like he has been stabbed right in the heart.

“Cool it you two, can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Do you want to do the honours or should I?” John is now glaring at Mycroft.

“Ta John. I think I would like to hear it first hand so I can make up  my own mind.”

Mycroft wearily looks up at me.

“I believe if the lady wished you to know she would have told you,” His voice is sort of shaky.

I can tell John is getting irritated and Sherlock is too quiet. He just keeps staring at his brother.

“Come on Mycroft, you can spare us the gory details but clearly something happened between you and Molly which has upset her.  I suggest you start talking or I’m gonna ask John here to tell me his version.”

Mycroft gives a great heave of a sigh and his head drops into his hands. He sits back against the couch and runs his fingers through his hair. I’ve seen this gesture many times in the NSY interrogation rooms. He’s about to spill the beans.

“After Sherlock— left— Molly and I arranged to have coffee on Tuesday afternoons. It would allow me to keep an eye on her and give her support should she need it. After the second week, she said she spotted a strange man following her. But no one saw anything. Her security team said nothing out of the ordinary was happening.”

Thankfully his talking had eased the tension in the room. Sherlock moved to the window and John relaxed into his chair.

“Okay. So far so good mate, keep going.”  

“The following week a few hours after I had dropped her at home, she arrived at my house in St James with tears streaming down her face. That night I checked her CCTV feeds myself. Nothing was found. She was terrified and insistent about the man appearing again, so I said she could stay in the guest room.”

I nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders. There was no reason to not believe what Mycroft was saying.

“It was a difficult week. I would drop her off at work or her flat and within the hour she would see this 'mystery man'. For four nights she was in my guest room— and on the fifth night— she shared my bed.”

John visibly tensed so I moved behind his chair and gently put my hands on his shoulders.

“Steady John, he’s not finished. Keep going Mycroft.”

“And in the morning she was gone. I phoned her multiple times, went to both her flat and the morgue.  She refused to see or speak to me. My only option was to surmise either Molly was hoping to recapture a piece of my brother, her lost friend, that night — or perhaps she had other motives— but clearly, the light of day caused her to regret sleeping with me.”

My inner cop took over.

“Had you been drinking?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“Certainly not.”

“Coerced her? Offered to pay her? Seduced her?”

Mycroft laughed off the last lot of questions.

“Gregory don’t be absurd!”

He knows I don’t seriously think any of those things happened.

“So you sleep with her and she walks out without any explication.” I share a look with John. Molly is the one who keeps telling me off for not explaining how I feel to the ex. She of all people likes to communicate. She says it keeps everything on an even keel.

“Okay, but why would your book make her cry?” There is a questioning look on John’s face.

“Ah.” Mycroft hesitates. “When she was staying with me she was having trouble sleeping, I would read to her from it before bed.”

Christ. I feel sorry for Mycroft. He must have been falling head over heels for her.

“When Molly was talking to me this morning she said ‘It’s been a long time but I'm not sure that makes any difference to him.’ What does that mean?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I'm sorry John, I have no idea.”

John looks at me. “Maybe she just has a case of severe regret and thinks Mycroft is holding a grudge.”

“No mate. There’s more. It has been two years and for her to act this way something isn't right. Tell me about that day, that you two—”

I feel like the piece of the puzzle I’m looking for is right in front of me but it’s turned the wrong way so I overlook it.

Shrugging his shoulders Mycroft gave a dejected sigh.

“It was Saturday and looking back I am ashamed to admit, we were playing house. We got up and I made breakfast. We read the papers in the garden then went to Borough Market. In the afternoon I had a bit of work to do. There was some film on TV she wanted to watch. She made a cake and I hurt my finger. As she administered first aid all the flirting we had been doing became serious. After dinner, I took her hand and led her to my bed. On my honour Gregory, nothing untoward happened and her sleeping on my shoulder two years ago was the last time I saw or spoke to Molly in person before yesterday afternoon.”

“She said something about consequences,” murmured John mostly to himself but loud enough for me to hear.

Molly came around the corner and hesitated in the doorway when she saw us. Mycroft instinctively stood up when she entered the room.

“I'm sorry I—, I just need my knitting bag— I think— yea it's next to the couch—” Molly passes nervously in front of Mycroft to retrieve her knitting from next to the couch and as she does a loud crash of shattering glass fills the room.

Sherlock has smashed a large vase onto the floor.

I hear Molly shout “Mycroft I'm so sorry!” just as her eyes close and her legs begin to buckle. Before either John or I can react Mycroft catches Molly in his arms saving her from hitting the ground.  

“Jesus Christ Sherlock! What the hell was that for?”

“Gavin the actual question is why after two years of the silent treatment did Molly just apologise to Mycroft?”

Sherlock Holmes has a very good point.

 

**Mycroft**

The sensation of having Molly in my arms again is all too brief. Concern wells in me as I lay Molly’s limp body on the couch although I'm sure she has only fainted. John appears at her side to tend her. But before I can hear his diagnosis Gregory roughly pulls me out of the sitting room and drags me into the kitchen, closing the door behind us.

I try to protest but Greg stands in front of the door.

“Come on mate, leave it to John. She hasn’t wanted to see you all weekend.”

“Detective Inspector. I have told you everything.”

“Look Mycroft just take me through it again. You and I both know Molly doesn’t leave loose ends. If she wanted to break it off with you she would have told you exactly why, warts and all.”

He’s absolutely right.

“UGH. I’m missing something. Let's start at the beginning.” Our dear Detective Inspector puts his fists to either side of his head in frustration. The last thing I want to do is rehash this excruciating period of my life, but I will in hopes Gregory can find the scrap of something I have missed.  I wish John would come in to tell us how Molly is doing.

“After Sherlock jumps who do you put a tail on?” Greg’s eyes are closed and he is moving his hands out in front of himself like he is sticking things up on the walls of an evidence room.

“Molly, Mrs. Hudson, John and you. All of Sherlock's nearest and dearest.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeh, you are one of Sherlock’s inner circle even if you don’t believe it.”

“Well, I didn't think I needed one. My security team—”

Gregory's eyes lit up with excitement thrusting a finger into my chest.

“Your usual security team had no fucking idea who they needed to be watching out for, which means they completely missed Molly’s mystery man!”

Fair play to Gregory, he figured it out two seconds before I did and headed out the door back to the sitting room with me hot on his heels.

Rushing in he knelt next to the couch and took Molly’s hand. Her skin was ashen and her breathing rapid. John had covered her with his jumper and raised up her legs to combat the shock.

“Molly it’s Greg.” I watched her eyes open and her head swivel towards him, ignoring me completely.

His voice was slow and steady.

“Mols the man who was following you, where was he the last time you saw him?”

“In Mycroft’s kitchen.” Her voice was so faint I could barely hear her over my pounding heart. “Greg, what if he’s watching us now? I need to go back to my room!” Molly’s voice is frantic and she tries to get up but Greg doesn’t let her.

Sherlock softly clears his throat to get Greg’s attention then shakes his head.

“Don’t worry doll, I have it on good authority he’s not watching you anymore. Tell me about when you saw him. What happened?”

“It was early. I needed to pee then I remembered the juice we bought at the market so I went to the kitchen. He was standing by the fridge.”

I’m shaking, incandescent with rage. John has put a steadying hand on my back, we both know what she is about to say is going to destroy me.

“Come on Molly, then what happens. It’s okay. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Greg is using his thumb to wipe away the tears from her cheeks.  

“He threatened me— if I saw Mycroft again he would kill us both. I'm so sorry Mycroft.” She looks at me and begins to sob uncontrollably.

//

 

Greg finds me in the loo at the end of the hall kneeling on the ground retching. He stands in the doorway watching me until I sit back on my heels then he hands me a wet cloth to wipe my face.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault. He got into my bloody house and threatened her right under my nose. When I find out who the hell did this—”

“It was Vlado.” Sherlock cool as a cucumber appears behind Greg to deliver this news. “She described him to a T and positively ID'd him from a photo. I always wondered what his last words meant ‘You have the most obedient friends,’ now I know."

I let out a sigh and let my chin drop to my chest. I'm not overly religious but a soft thank you to god happens before I can stop it.

“Have you assured Molly he is no longer a threat?”

“Yep.”Sherlock pops his final P. I'm too exhausted to chide him. “I showed her the photos.”

“What the hell Sherlock— Molly is lying there is shock and you show her pictures of some international fugitive with a bullet hole in him?” Greg sounds like he is scolding his child for drawing on the wall with crayons.

Rolling his eyes Sherlock holds his phone up to Gregory’s face. “No bullet hole. I broke his neck. He looks rather peaceful don't you think?”  

“Ugh, put that away you muppet!” Sherlock shrugs and heads back to the sitting room.  “Find some nice pictures to show her. She likes cat videos. I'll be there in a minute.” 

Greg turns his attention back to me.

“As for you, head upstairs and take a shower and a couple of ibuprofen. It's been a long day."

I look down the hallway towards the sitting room door.

“Yea, I know you want to scoop her up and never let her go but I promise she'll be here after you freshen up.”

I thank Greg and head upstairs for a shower.

 

**Molly**

I'm lying on my bed with Sherlock watching cat videos on Instagram.

He gives me a nudge with his arm.

“So. My brother. You know, you could do a lot worse.”

“Sherlock, I think that ship has sailed. Your brother hasn't left his room for hours. After what happened it's hardly a surprise he is in no hurry to see me."

We watch three more videos.

Just as I'm about to kick Sherlock out so I can get ready for bed there is a hesitant knock on my door.  I assume it is Greg come to collect the tray John insisted my dinner was served on.

It's Mycroft.

He has changed his clothes and his hair is slightly damp. Some of the fatigue around his eyes is gone— he's probably had a nap, but there is still a weariness clinging to him. He stands in the doorway and doesn't immediately enter my room.

Sherlock nudges me. “You good?”

“Yea. It's fine.”

Mycroft steps to the side to let his brother pass through the door.

I pat the bed and Mycroft sits down reluctantly. He looks down at his hands resting in his lap.

After a few minutes of silence, I say hello I have no idea where to start so this seems as good a place as any.

“Hello.” He gently smiles at me and holds out his hand, our fingers slip together.

“I've missed you.” Mycroft's voice cracks with emotion, his arms wrapping around me as I sit up.

//

I wake up the following morning still in Mycroft's arms. His clothes are rumpled and his hair has turned fluffy —  like Sherlock's.

His blue eyes are only half open but still, he is watching me.

“Did you sleep?” The dark circles tell me the answer before he does.

“Not a wink. Turns out just because I'm holding you doesn't make either the fear of waking up to find you gone or the guilt I have for cocking things up so badly  vanish.”

I softly kiss him, he turns his head away before it can go too far. “Too soon,” he sighs. I nuzzle in closer and he rubs my back.

“Do you want to try again?” I ask it to his chest— I can't look him in the eye. My heart is pounding, I'm terrified of the answer but I need to know.

He sighs and his hand rubs up and down my back while he thinks.

“I—” he hesitates while he regroups his thoughts. “How would we—?”

“How about Tuesday afternoon? We could grab a coffee?”

A gentle smile appears on his face.

“It's a date.”

 

**Postscript - London Three Months Later**

 

**Mycroft**

I blink my eyes open. It doesn't matter how many mornings I find Molly in my bed, seeing her makes me sigh with relief.

Of course I instantly forgave Molly for everything. What happened wasn't her fault in the slightest.

Occasionally I still have a searing pang of guilt for my actions in the whole mess but happily, they are becoming significantly more infrequent.

Life goes on and so have Molly and I.

We re-instated our weekly coffee “dates” a term she insisted on using and hoped the natural course of events would occur. Which, I'm relieved to say, it did.

Three months after our weekend with Sherlock Molly has become a regular guest in my bed.

“Is this morning’s meeting with the PM at 10 a.m. or 11 a.m.?”

I do wish she wouldn't insist on discussing my schedule while we are enjoying sexual congress. It's challenging enough having to juggle the thrill of how glorious it feels to be inside her with reciting the countries of the world in reverse alphabetical order to ensure satisfactory completion for all parties.

“What difference does it make?”

“Well, if it's 11 a.m. I'm going to do this—” Molly rearranges herself to straddle me. Her hands are resting on my chest and I’m deep in her as she sets a slow and steady pace. We both know when the end comes it will be sweet relief. She will crumple onto me, the pair of us sweaty and exhausted.

“But if it's 10 a.m. this needs to happen—” She rolls us over and I'm on top again. I return to a steady cadence before she tilts her pelvis and swivels her hips slowly which completely destroys my focus. I have completely forgotten what country comes before Uganda in the reverse alphabetical list.  My breath hitches. I scrunch my eyes closed dipping my head to rest my forehead on the pillow next to her while I try desperately not to give in to the pull of ecstasy which is now so very close.

“10 o’clock” my response comes through gritted teeth.

“Then stop messing around,” she says in a sultry whisper. “We've got to get ready for work.”

I hook her knee around my elbow and drive into her even deeper. Almost instantly she unravels with a moan and me with a grunt.

//

Twenty-one minutes later I'm standing in my kitchen drinking tea watching BBC News 24. My car is already waiting outside.

Molly comes in and kisses me on the cheek before picking up her cup of tea. On the counter are the estate agent brochures for the houses near Bart's we are going to look at tomorrow. It will be much easier when she is on call if we live closer to the hospital.

She picks up the top one and looks at it while sipping her tea.

“Will this photo be coming with us when we move or can we leave Vlado's ghost here?” I gesture to the fairly gruesome autopsy photo of Vlado on my fridge. Molly put it there the first time she returned to this kitchen.

“He has to come with us!” She looks affectionately at the photo.

“Why on earth does he have to come with us?”

“Because without him, I wouldn't be here.”

Standing in my kitchen, exactly where an international fugitive once stood, Molly kisses me and I know she's right.  

 

\-- The End --


End file.
